


Letters to the Dead

by EllieL



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alderaan, Ceremony, Gen, Grief, Memories, Post-ANH, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:36:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieL/pseuds/EllieL
Summary: After the medal ceremony and celebrations on Yavin, Princess Leia takes the time for her own rituals of grief and remembrance.





	Letters to the Dead

She slipped away from the festivities quietly, unnoticed amid the raucous jubilation and celebratory chaos. Those who might hold her to account for her disappearance were well aware of why she was leaving, had helped her procure the necessary supplies. If she were to be judged for this, it would be as one honoring her traditions and her people. But she did not want admiration and adulation, though, merely her own way to remember and grieve. Leia did not want an audience; her grief was not performative. At home it would have been only her and a High Priest, and here it would be her alone.  


As she returned to the damp grey quarters she’d been issued two days prior, she shed her ceremonial Senatorial robes, grateful at least a crate of her personal effects had made it off Coruscant in the wake of her official “death.” They had been rerouted to Yavin, and she had no longer thought herself capable of delight until that box had arrived. Her wardrobe choices were still limited, and weighted to the professional and ceremonial, but at least they were hers, and clean. When you no longer had anything, something as simple as a pair of shoes was suddenly powerful. Especially her mother’s necklace, which she carefully placed back in its case. It was all she had left, this box of silks and silver, things taken for granted so recently.  


There would have been ceremonial robes for this, too, _before_ . A cowl, covering simply braided hair. She’d have been permitted to wear black or dark grey, not this impractical white. But that was all she had now, and her life had suddenly become a study in adaptation. She found a simple, casual day dress, off-white, and slipped in to it before gathering the other items she’d requisitioned with assistance from Carlist and Mon.  


They barely filled the small pack she’d been given; at home, the ceremonial items were housed in an ornate black lacquered box, inlaid with precious stones. It had always seemed important, if vaguely ominous, sparkling in firelight with flashes of vermillion and chartreuse. Now a commonplace tan cloth rucksack was making do, making it all seem somehow less devastating, less overwhelming. Less a reminder of home and all that had been lost.  


Leia slung the bag over one shoulder, feeling as if she were treating it far too casually. But it was all so haphazard, so makeshift, such a reminder that all her rituals were gone in everything but memory, which broke her heart even more. Until shouldering the bag, she hadn’t realized that was possible.  


As she climbed the zigarrut, her feet felt heavy with the weight of her people. The steps were worn and she had to tread carefully as loose bits of stone crumbled away underfoot. Forcing herself to pay attention to her footfalls at least kept her tears at bay as she made the journey upward. This was not her temple, but it was as close as she could get to the sky-grazing minarets of home. She could offer her blessings from up here.  


Reaching the top, the fiery sunset seemed divinely granted for her purpose, and she took a deep steadying breath as she stared out at it a moment before bowing to it. Then she knelt and slid the rucksack to the warm stone surface beside her. Drawing out each item, she arrayed them with precision, hardly noting now that it was not the traditional box she was withdrawing them from.  


Only when she pulled out the pieces of bark did it feel wrong, so far removed from what she was used to at home. Where were the long coils of screwgrass, cultivated and cured just for this ceremony? Where was the crystal pot of ink, kept for this alone? Here she had merely bark from the native nialuli trees, measured in centims rather than metres. Here she had only an ink stylus on loan from Mon’s office, rather than the calligraphic implement she knew.  


With a sigh, she spread the items out before her and kindled a small fire in the makeshift brazier—a fry pan from the mess hall, lit with more bark and old batting. There was not the shining copper brazier, to reflect the flames and life back to the offerant. There would never again be crackling Alderaanian oak, strong and long-burning. There were none of the sharp, wafting herbs she remembered, sizzling and throwing up violet sparks.   


Now, a small orange fire urged her on, barely distinguishable from the sunset. That, too, was different, the light not quite right, the air fragrant with unfamiliar smells.   


She spread one piece of bark before her, wondering how to fit all of the traditional missive upon it; the screwgrass could stretch several metres, giving plenty of room for the traditional blessing as well as the personal letter. Here she would have to be brief, and weighed sacrificing the blessing against sacrificing the personal. Ultimately she decided the Goddess would forgive the traditional insight of the circumstances, and appreciate the weight of the personal as a gesture of determination to carry on.   


The elaborate script of High Alderaanian was almost impossible with the average stylus, so after writing { _The People of Alderaan_ } she switched back to common script as well.   


{ _Citizens, countrymen. May the Goddess embrace you and keep you in peace and light._ }  


It seemed an adequate abridgement of the longer blessing, and she closed her eyes for a thoughtful moment before scratching out the rest of the message.  


{ _Not all of you had the same belief in revolution I hold, but all of you believed in peace. Not just for yourselves but for every being, everywhere. We are a people of peace and justice, and I will carry those values along with me all the days of my life. Embracing those values I will right the wrong that has been done to all of you, and keep your memory alive so long as I live to speak of you._ }  


Quietly, she recited the entirety of the usual Blessing of the Dead, before placing the piece of nialuli bark into the fire. It caught instantly and smoked, burning to ashes quickly, smoke dissipating in the humid air.   


That would be the easiest, she knew. Though she could write dozens, for her aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, today she could write only three. More than that would be unbearable. Tears already pricked her eyes as she gathered materials for the second.   


{ _Breha_ _Antilles_ _Organa_ }  


She took a shuddering breath and let the tears begin to fall as she wrote.  


{ _Queen, Mother._ _May the Goddess embrace you and keep you in peace and light._ }  


Sitting up very straight, she gazed into the fading sun as she chose her next words. Everything seemed inadequate.  


{ _You loved your people above all else, and instilled that love in me. You nurtured, loved, and supported me in all my endeavors. You believed every being worthy of love and justice, and chose to see that every being in the galaxy had that right, just as you made sure all of your people did. I will not let your sacrifice be in vain. I will seek justice for you and your people, and keep your memory alive so long as I live to speak of you._ }  


Her fingers trembled as she lifted the bark to her lips and kissed it lightly before blessing it, and placing it into the flames. They flared bright again, crackling and sparking, always viewed as a sign of favor, though the sparks were so blurred with her tears she could see no omens in them.  


Somewhere far below echoed the shouts and songs of Rebel soldiers, bouncing off the worn stone and dancing into the jungle. It was a jolting counterpoint to the meditative chat that a priest should have been accompanying her with.  


Bowing her head, she offered two lines of the song, archaic High Alderaanian rolling off her tongue before choking away to silence.  


One last, the most difficult for her to contemplate.   


{ _Bail Prestor Organa_ }  


{ _Viceroy, Father. May the Goddess embrace you and keep you in peace and light._ }  


She did not try to contain her tears, or to keep her usually elegant writing legible as she continued her message for her father.  


{ _You believed in liberty and peace for all, and were willing to sacrifice your own to ensure that others were given that opportunity. You taught me to sacrifice as well, though you tried your best to dissuade me from choosing the same path that you did. Now I can only follow this path through to its conclusion, and hope that I might achieve the outcome we both hoped for. I will seek liberty and peace for all beings, and keep your memory alive so long as I live to speak of you._ }  


As with her mother’s, she kissed it lightly before reciting the entire blessing. Then, as the sun slipped below the horizon, she dropped the tear-stained bark into the fire, watching as it curled and flared and abruptly burst into a sparking flame.  


At the same time, hundreds of feet below, a whistling noise was followed by a shower of sparks arcing across the twilight sky. Jubilant cries reverberated below her, and she could believe for just a moment that they were for her parents, her Alderaanians, as they should have been. Her own song blended in with the voices carrying on the night air and the noise of nocturnal animals stirring in the jungle.  


Another crackler raced across the sky, trailing crimson sparks in the indigo sky, followed by a third, golden and bright as sunrise. They intersected, colors mingling, raining down towards the unseen revellers gathered below. Voices cheered and laughed, full of happiness and hope.  


That was, perhaps, her sign in the sparks, pointing her way forward. The only way the lives lost would have purpose would be for her to devote her energy to this revolution her parents started, helped fund, nurtured as surely as they’d nurtured her. They could not see this through, but she would see it through to the last.  


Perhaps happiness awaited her there.

 

*


End file.
